


Catch and Send

by lidiamartini



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Sports, Enemies to Lovers, High School, M/M, Romance, Swearing, and so i'm forcing you all to witness that, basically i'm too obsessed with rowing, forgive them boy rowers are idiots, sorry just wanted to cover all my bases, their rivalry is really short lived don't worry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-05-26 03:25:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14991713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lidiamartini/pseuds/lidiamartini
Summary: "Did you know that the rowing stroke is long, hard, wet, and explosive?" Lance questioned with a grin.---aka the rowing crew au that I think you all deserve. This is a REWRITE of a previous rowing au that I really couldn't salvage called "loves, and hates, and passions just like mine." I will explain all terms at the beginning of the chapters, but I will try to make them as clear as possible in the story itself so that you don't really have to read the notes. (with illustrations coming soon!)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> erg: also known as an indoor rowing machine, used by rowers to train intensely (these shits SUCK)
> 
> 2k test: a type of workout performed on the erg where the rowers row 2000 meters as fast as possible. this is  
> universally accepted as the hardest part of rowing and dreaded by all. 
> 
> "Mel, why is 'top eight' significant?" good question- this is because each boat is comprised of 8 rowers and one coxswain (pronounced cox-in) and so the fastest 8 rowers get put on the highest boat, the V8. like the drink. your 2k ranking generally determines which rowers are put in the V8 lineup. 
> 
> coxswain: a very small person (can be a girl or guy) who sits at the stern of the boat and gives instructions to the rowers in their boat, also steers. responsible for keeping the rowers on task and safe.

Hauling himself up and off the locker room bench, Lance stiffly waddled towards the group of whispering teammates. As he pushed through the crowd, he briefly heard flashes of “..was eighth”, “..totally died”, “I should’ve…”, and other murmurings. The huddle’s electric and tense energy worked its way into Lance’s bones and hummed through his veins. His body was blazing- buzzing and racing and crawling in his nervousness. After an eternity that ended all too soon, Lance finally reached the heart of the horde. In a half-hearted, strained voice, Lance muttered to himself, “So what if I bombed it? I don’t care. It doesn’t matter to me. I don’t…” he trailed off with a sigh. Feigning apathy would get him nowhere. Picking his eyes up from where they had turned towards his feet, Lance set his jaw and determinately scanned the sheet of paper for his own name. The title alone caused shocks of panic to shoot through Lance’s limbs, the memory of pain and pre-race anxiety fresh in his mind.

“2k Erg Test 3/17/18”.

Upon reading this, his legs burned with phantom aches and his breath turned ragged like it had during the test itself. He remembered how that day had begun.  
_  
Rowers milled into the boathouse silently, no one wanting to admit their fears by speaking with a shaking voice. Lance made eye contact with Hunk and nodded curtly in support; Hunk responded with a mechanic pat on Lance’s shoulder while their stomachs rolled and squeezed in on themselves like they had been doing all day. Thinking about the upcoming test was enough to chill Lance’s insides, cool waves of adrenaline galloping through his body. He plugged in his headphones in an attempt to quiet his nerves and only succeeded in giving them a slightly louder backtrack._

_Fuck._

_He and Hunk stood side by side during their warmup, resolutely trying to comfort each other in silent solidarity. Occasionally their arms would bump into each other, prompting pinched smiles that didn’t reach their eyes, when finally their coach called for them to meet._

_After a brief and slightly cheesy pep-talk, the team was sent into the erg room to get ready. Lance stared at the monitor in front of him and concentrated on visualizing the race, hoping to get rid of some tension in doing so. His feet already strapped in, Lance closed his eyes and took a deep breath to center himself. He transported himself to a place where he could only feel the cool metal touching his legs, the unyielding handle in his hands, and brief tendrils of cool wind brushing through his hair. When he opened his eyes again, their coach was standing in the front of the erg room facing them all. Raising one hand, he boomed in a loud voice, “Attention…”_

_Lance and Hunk shared a fist bump without breaking eye contact with their monitors._

_“Row!”_

_Instant chaos filled the room._

_Music blared, coxswains yelled, and the whirring sound of the ergs became deafening. Lance centered himself internally, quickly settling into a sustainable rhythm. Every stroke brought him closer to the finish line, closer to his max._

_As all 2k tests do, this one began with a false sense of security. The first 250 meters were a breeze; Lance felt euphoric with energy, power, and hope. He drove his legs down hard, pushing more with each consecutive stroke. The screen in front of him displayed how many meters he had left, so Lance knew exactly when things started to...hurt._

_He felt it first in his legs. Tingling, which soon descended into an all consuming agony as he forced his body to cooperate. Next came his heart rate, rapid and throbbing in his chest. After, his breathing, which turned sharp and heaving._

_Yet he didn’t truly start to crack until the doubt creeped into his head. Lance noted with despair that he was 800 meters down, 1200 left to go. Less than halfway done. He should slow down. He should get off. What made him ever think that he could break his personal record? He couldn’t make it. He couldn’t keep going. He couldn’t-_

_No._

_Determinately, Lance put his head down and shoved these thoughts away with an irritated grunt. He’d undergone too many early morning practices, grueling weights sessions, and sore muscles to quit in the middle of this race. He watched the meters dip past 1000 and onto 999. With a masochistic and manic grin, Lance took 10 strokes as hard as he could to recenter himself. Rounding out of the 900s and into 872 meters left, he embraced the blisters that broke on his hands._ Better accept it than try to fight it, _Lance mused somewhere in the back of his mind._

 _With 468 meters left, he spared a glance around the erg room at his teammates and his gaze snagged on one singular rower. Keith, like the rest of the team, was rowing shirtless; his muscles activated clearly as he worked through each stroke and sweat beaded on his back. Lance considered this for a moment, then shook his head to focus on his own erg again. He scrunched his nose._ Disgusting.

_Beginning his sprint in the last 350 meters, Lance’s mind drifted towards Keith again. How absolutely infuriating he was, always just a couple seconds faster than Lance, barely out of reach but still too far away to catch. This idea propelled him through the last leg of the 2k, the only clarity that Lance could hold onto by a thin and desperate thread. His vision had gone dark around the edges and the tunnel vision consumed him. The pain was almost unbearable, rendering Lance’s thoughts incoherent, frantic, and primal. All that mattered was the number on the screen. His movements were jagged and sloppy, and became even more so when Lance increased the stroke rate in a last minute attempt at lowering his time even more._

_100 meters left. Ten strokes._

_30._

_8\. One more stroke._

_Zero._

_The funny thing about erg tests was that the most pain isn’t even condensed into the test itself, but rather the first 30 seconds right after finishing. Lance’s body was just realizing that it could afford to fall apart now that it was done fighting, and so fall apart it certainly did. His legs shook uncontrollably and his eyelids fluttered shut, as even opening them made him too dizzy and weary to function. Swaying slightly in his seat, Lance buried his head between his knees and concentrated on slowing his panting. Slowly, the cacophony of screaming coxswains and loud ergs around him was replaced with heavy gasps for air and the occasional retching as someone threw up. Lance opened his eyes and hands, wincing at the sight of multiple blood blisters which had popped and spread red all over his palms. Hunk gave him a soft and exhausted smile, whispering “We’re done”._  
  
Snapping himself out of the reverie, Lance searched the results sheet for his own name. He bit his lip and placed a finger on the rankings, dragging it down line by line.

  
Shirogane, Garrett, Sinkovic, Williams, Cheng, Hennig...Kogane, Lance noted with a grimace, and finally, in eighth place, Flores.

8) Lance Flores, 6:23.7

Lance blinked, then blinked again when the number didn’t change. Slowly, an unbelieving smile crept onto his face; if he wasn’t too ecstatic to pay attention, he would’ve noticed that his cheeks had started to ache. He stepped away from the sheet with dopey, glazed over eyes and was met with scattered pats on the back and a couple congratulatory “fuck shit up, man”-s. Once he escaped the swirling throng of excited rowers, Lance shrugged his bag onto his shoulder and meandered into the parking lot towards his car.

Something rustling around behind him made Lance turn around, barely giving him a moment to brace himself before Pidge barreled into him bodily.

“Shit, good to see you too, Pidge,” Lance laughed, rubbing his shoulder where she had attacked.

Apparently lacking the good grace to even act remorseful, Pidge energetically informed him, “I heard the coaches talking about trying you out on the V8 tomorrow- I want you in my boat. Promise me you’ll go to bed early and pull your ass off tomorrow, yeah?” She looked up at him with expectant eyes.

Lance sobered up instantly. “I will. You know how much I want this,” he assured her. “I’m not going to throw away my only chance.”

Pidge stared at him for a second, then quickly shoved the chocolate milk that she had been drinking at him. “Enough of this serious shit. Drink this, you need it more than I do.” At that moment, Matt skidded next to them in his car and motioned for Pidge to get in the passenger seat. Pidge took one more look at Lance, pointed at him, and yelled, “Think about what I said!”

Lance smiled fondly back at her and rolled his eyes. He was just able to hear Pidge call out “Ciao!” and glimpse her flipping him off before she and Matt raced out of the parking lot like two bats out of hell.

Humming to himself, Lance turned around and made his way back towards his car. He had just stuffed his duffel into the passenger seat when someone appeared huffing and puffing behind him.

“Lance!” A voice exclaimed breathlessly.

Lance swiveled around to greet them, only to drop the friendly expression on his face upon recognizing who it was.

“Lance,” Keith repeated, “sorry, I was late out of the locker room. I wanted to catch you before you left and just congratulate you on your 2k yesterday. You had a good piece.”

What an absolute _dick._

“Oh, wow,” Lance said impatiently, “you seriously came to rub it in my face? Well guess what, _pal,_ I would watch your back if I were you.” Lance gestured wildly with his hands and poked Keith in the chest. Keith’s eyes widened, and he started to stammer.

“That wasn’t- Lance that wasn’t what I-”

“I’m only 2 and a half seconds behind you, which is nothing, and you know it. I’m coming for your spot. So I really think you should just focus on yourself instead of trying to intimidate me right now.” Clenching his jaw, Lance narrowed his eyes and stepped into Keith’s personal space.

“You know what?” Keith said lowly, “Fine.” He leaned into Lance, almost touching their foreheads together. “Why don’t you take whatever problem you have with me and concentrate that on your rowing, if you really think you can beat me. I just hope you can keep up,” he finished.

They stood in silence, teeth bared and mere inches apart. Finally, they mutually broke apart with disdainful glares at each other.

Once Lance settled into the driver’s seat of his car, he let out a loud groan and gripped the steering wheel tightly with both hands. Dropping his head, Lance let himself be scared. In the darkness, with no one watching, he thought about what tomorrow would bring. Beyond just the pain of a normal practice, as that was to be expected every day, he worried intensely about what the rest of the V8 would think of him. What if he slowed the boat down, nothing more than dead weight for them to lug around the whole day? What if they realized that he was a fraud, a fluke in the system that just barely managed to scrape by with a decent 2k score. A million thoughts rushed through his head, threatening to overwhelm him with their intensity.

As if on cue, his phone lit up softly with a notification.

**Hunk- 7:12 P.M. iMessage.**

_“Don’t overthink this. You’ll do great tomorrow- I believe in you and can’t wait to have you on my boat!!!”_

Slightly relieved and consoled, Lance started the engine and headed home. He deserved to be in the V8; now all he had to do was convince everyone else of it, too.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shell: just another name for the physical boat.  
> Catching a crab: when you accidentally twist your handle (if we’re getting with technical rowing terms, feather the blade too much) too much and end up getting the blade caught in the water and it unpleasantly hits your chest rather hard. Ouch. Unrelated to pubic crabs, though I can understand the confusion.
> 
> translations of the spanish in this chapter can be found at the bottom notes!

As far as first days go, Lance’s could have gone significantly worse.

 

That’s not to say, however, that it couldn’t have gone better.

 

“Two seat, square up earlier.”

 

“Two seat, you’re rushing your slide.”

 

“Two seat, your blade is washing out.”

 

Lance gritted his teeth and stared straight forward at Rolo’s back. Eager to draw less negative attention on his first day, he became hyper aware of Pidge’s critiques and worked desperately to fix them all at once. Lance could feel his teammates’ doubt in him creeping under his skin and settling into his veins; The microphone in Pidge’s headset projected her voice throughout the entire boat, making his failures painfully obvious and impossible to ignore for everyone present. As the outsider, Lance convinced himself that every imbalance, bad stroke, or unsynchronized movement made by the whole crew was a direct result of his poor rowing. The other rowers _had_ to feel the difference, had to know that Lance was nothing more than a wrench in the gears of a previously fine tuned machine.

 

Water splashed into his mouth, making him sputter and cough upon inhaling it. Dust and blood slicked his oar handle and prevented him from properly feathering or squaring the blade in time with the rest of the crew. The words “two seat” only caused him to cringe, knowing that they would be immediately followed by even more blows to his ego. Though none of his teammates were pointing out the disproportionate number of times that Lance’s technique was corrected compared to their own, it settled itself heavily in the atmosphere.

 

Lance felt tears of frustration begin to fog his eyes over, and the back of his throat grew tight. He was _trying,_ damn it. Suddenly, he was very grateful for the sunglasses that covered his eyes and the visor that partially blocked his face from view. Tightening his grip on the oar, Lance watched his knuckles go white and sensed his shoulders tense up. Keith, from his vantage point in the seat directly behind Lance, was sure to see his distress if he was paying any attention. Lance dreaded what he thought was the inevitable chastising from Keith telling him to get a grip. Strangely, Keith stayed perfectly silent throughout the entire practice, not even speaking up to comment on the workout or the weather. Nothing.

 

“Two seat,” Pidge began. God fucking-

 

“Good change. Your handle height looks more consistent.”

 

Lance blinked. Oh. He could work with that.

 

And suddenly, he kicked into action. Pidge’s remarks no longer seemed so personal, nor did the whole boat’s errors fall solely on his shoulders to remedy. Lance’s blade made solid contact with the water, and for the first time that day, he felt powerful and in control. Concentrating carefully on Rolo’s shoulders, he lined up his motions with the rest of the boat and they started...flying.

 

This feeling, Lance remembered, was what he rowed for. The boat barely seemed to touch the water below, slicing through the ripples with precise efficiency. Every boy in the lineup unified with each other to the point of becoming one singular entity; Lance could detect Hunk’s unbeatable strength in six seat, Shiro’s purposeful leadership in stroke seat, and finally, Keith’s precise technique that maintained the boat’s balance from his spot in bow seat. They were finally working together to create something greater than themselves. As the wind whipped through Lance’s hair, he listened carefully to the sounds around him.

 

The boys inhaled and exhaled together, producing a booming shudder with every stroke. Crashing water echoed around them. Oarlocks clicked and vibrated Lance’s bones. Yet of everything Lance could here, Pidge’s own voice commanded the most unrelenting attention from everyone within earshot.

 

“Ratio shift in two, that’s one...two!” Pidge shouted through the speakers. Instantly, the entire boat followed her instruction without question or hesitation. Lance’s unfailing belief in Pidge paralleled his trust in Hunk’s cooking, or the reliability of Keith’s B.O. after an erg. You know, something you could count on. A safety blanket of sorts.

 

Lance shoved the pain arching through his body to the back of his mind; every rower present implemented Pidge’s call, and they were connected. He dedicated his discomfort to his mission and his crewmates, knowing full well that they all were giving all they had, as well. Weariness be damned, Lance would change this crew for the better. He had to.

 

Had to.

 

If Lance couldn’t perform well today, what would happen to him? Logically, he understood that the worst consequence would be getting moved back onto the 2V. Yet Lance proudly reigned supreme in the ‘High (Conclusion) Jumping’ event. Giving up that title now would just be a quitter move, and Lance was nothing if not perseverant.

 

So Lance jumped. High. And continued leaping, until his mind was so overcome with worst case scenarios that he completely forgot to pay attention to the current task at hand.

 

“Oof-” Lance barely managed to choke out before his own oar slammed forcefully into his chest and knocked him flat onto his back. Suddenly, the entire boat halted to a stop as Lance’s blade twisted violently and embedded itself in the water against the flow of the shell.

 

“Did someone catch a crab?” Pidge’s voice came over the speakers. Instead of answering her inquiry, sympathetic grimaces from the other boys in the boat told her everything she needed to know. Lance, from his ever-so-dignified vantage point on his back, caught a glimpse of Keith’s glowering face. They made eye contact for a split-second, enough for Keith to whisper coldly, “Get up. You’re embarrassing yourself.” Lance hardened his eyes and turned his head away.

 

“Okay, you know what to do. Lance, feather the oar and everyone else lean to starboard so he can get his blade unstuck,” Pidge instructed wearily, reminding Lance of where he was. With the rest of the boat’s help, he soon righted himself and stuck out a hand to assure Pidge that he was ready to go. Lance’s face grew hot with frustrated embarrassment from the scene he had made and he ground his teeth tightly. He shifted around in his seat uncomfortably and curled his toes. Determined not to draw any more negative attention to himself, Lance remained quiet for the remainder of the practice and focused only on rowing in time with his teammates.

 

Blessedly, the rest of practice passed without incident and Lance finally could breathe a sigh of relief upon finally arriving back at the docks.

 

 _I’ve never been so grateful,_ Lance grimly noted, _for solid land._

 

Any forced interactions with Keith while washing or storing the boat were strained and hostile, but two could play at that game. If Lance was a better man, he would have refrained from pettily bumping into Keith with his shoulder and brushing him aside as he walked into the locker room. Yet Lance, unfortunately, was too tired and believed in Keith’s general evilness too much to be the better man today. Which is what leads us to the lamentable interaction that we, dear reader, find ourselves in now.

 

“What is your problem today, Lance?” Keith snarled, whipping around to look at him head on.

 

The locker room had completely cleared out, and any remaining stragglers quickly shuffled outside and away from the unavoidable explosion to come.

 

“What’s _my_ problem?” Lance retailated furiously with a wide sweep of his arms. “You’re the one that started it today on the water!”

 

“I just want you to take something seriously for once! Start…” Keith paused and shook his head as he searched for the right words. “Caring less about what could go wrong and just concentrate on actually doing your job.”

 

Lance blinked. He opened and closed his mouth with aborted attempts at speech and finally let his shoulders fall a bit. Keith’s eyes were still fiery and boring into Lance, though they dulled slightly upon seeing Lance deflate.

 

“You’re not- you’re not a bad rower, Lance.” Keith exhaled and turned his head towards the ceiling exasperatedly. “But you jeopardize the rest of us when you get so tense that you can’t even hold your oar. Figure it out or step down,” he finished, straightening his posture and looking Lance dead in the eye. With that, Keith spun on his heel and stalked out of the room, closing the heavy door forcefully.

 

And then...nothing. Lance was left alone with his thoughts. Mentally, he kicked himself over and over again for allowing his worries to overwhelm him so much and tasted bitterness on his tongue. Lance shook his head and let his bangs fall into his eyes. Slowly, he made his way out of the locker room and trudged through the parking lot towards his car with his feet dragging.

 

Upon arriving home, he was greeted with the smell of spices drifting through the house but couldn’t quite bring himself to face his family and talk about his day. As quietly as he could, Lance snuck into the kitchen while his mother’s back was turned to grab a fistful of protein bars and a chocolate milk. She hummed to herself while cooking, but stopped abruptly when Lance accidentally bumped a cereal box onto the floor loudly.

 

Turning with a warm smile on her face, Lance’s mother exclaimed, “¡Lancito, ya llegas!” Guiltily, Lance met her eyes and tried to rid his expression of any melancholy. Despite his best efforts, however, his mother’s smile immediately dropped.

 

Figures.

 

She moved closer to stroke his cheek. “Andas con los ojitos bien cansados, Lance. ¿Què te pasa? Ven, ven mijito. Comamos algo, te vas a sentir mejor,” she continued kindly.  Lance shied away from her touch and averted his gaze in shame to avoid seeing her hurt. With his focus decidedly on his toes, Lance mumbled a quiet “Discúlpame, mamita. Te quiero mucho,” and shuffled out of the kitchen. Once in the quiet of his own bedroom, Lance stared down at the various protein bars he had just snagged.

 

“Dinner of champions, I guess,” Lance shrugged as he tore off a bite of one. Just then, his phone vibrated with a text from Hunk.

 

**Hunk- 7:42 P.M. iMessage.**

yo what was that with Keith at the end of practice today? i was waiting outside to talk to the coaches nd saw you guys walk out looking upset so just wanted to check in and make sure you’re okay

 

Lance groaned and flopped back onto his bed. Great, now he had to explain this shit-show that he didn’t even understand. What was Keith even feeling? Regardless of any personal problem that Keith might have with him, he couldn’t deny that today the boat felt _good._ Aside from the whole, “Lance-catches-a-crab-and-stops-the-whole-boat-with-a-pitifully-high-pitched-yelp” situation, that is. Which, in the grand scheme of things, was an honest mistake and truly not that big of a deal. But then Keith had to go and complicate things even further by tacking on a...compliment? Of sorts. A complimentito, if you will. One which, to Keith’s credit, did admittedly lessen the blow a little bit.

 

He thought about Keith’s other point, though. _Figure it out of step down._ Was his racing mind actually holding everyone else back? And first off, was that even possible? Lance squeezed his eyes shut. He cared so much about impressing the coaches and the rest of the V8 that it was actually hurting any chances he might have to truly become one of them.

 

Eventually, Lance decided to go to sleep and hoped for a clearer mind in the morning. He replied to Hunk with the only thing he was sure about.

 

**Lance Flores- 10:21 P.M. iMessage.**

I have no idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> 1\. Lance! You’re home.  
> 2\. Your eyes look tired, Lance. What happened? Come, my boy. Let’s eat something, it’ll make you feel better.  
> 3\. I’m sorry, mom. I love you.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i kno it's short but i wanted to get SOMETHING out thanks babey boyz

Keith was, admittedly, a tougher one to crack than Lance had previously estimated. Compared to most people, Keith responded significantly less to Lance’s attempts at small talk (or god forbid, friendship). And yet in times like these, Lance just had to remember his formative and fleeting moments with Maurice.

 

Maurice Wroblewski, you see, was an 83 year old man living in Tallahassee, Florida circa 2015. Maurice was also the unfortunate sufferer of painful hemorrhoids which he felt were necessary to comment on at regular 3 minute intervals.  Coincidentally, Lance (c. 2015) found himself seated next to Maurice in a doctor’s waiting room for a truly painful stretch of time, even without the hemorrhoids. Maurice frequently moaned and shifted in his seat, disrupting the deafening silence only to have it awkwardly descend upon them again immediately after he finished griping. Lance futilely searched the room for any sign of the passing time. He could barely make out the agonizingly slow _tick-tock_ of a seconds hand, yet the clock stayed resolutely out of view and refused to show Lance how long until his appointment started. Eventually, the (one-sided, Lance doubted Maurice even noticed him) tension became too much to bear and Lance broke, desperate to fill the void somehow.

 

“So… do you have any kids?” Lance questioned with a stiffness in his voice.

 

Maurice jumped in his seat. “Me?” He replied croakily, pointing to himself in surprise. Lance politely gestured around to the entirely empty room in lieu of answering.

 

“You make a fair point, my boy,” Maurice laughed. After a brief pause, he continued, “Yes, to your question. Three. Who somehow were even more of a pain in the ass then my current condition, mind you,  but I love them, I do,” he finished jokingly. Lance’s eyes widened and he stifled the urge to scream before haltingly continuing the conversation.

 

Since that interaction, Lance has prided himself on his ability to talk to anyone, anywhere, about anything. He liked letting people know that they could trust him and grow comfortable in his presence. This had served him well for most of his life without fail- given the multitude of awkward scenarios that Lance had been forced into, his flawless track record was an impressive feat.

 

And yet, despite all his experience and unshakable confidence, Lance was feeling...challenged.

 

“Why did you decide to row?” Lance ground out, jogging alongside Keith at the front of the pack.

 

“I like to workout,” Keith replied dully, not even bothering to incline his head towards Lance.

 

Lance gritted his teeth. _Anyone, anytime, any topic,_ he thought determinedly. He was nothing if not persistent, after all. So he continued.

 

“I saw my older cousins doing it and basically idolized them at the time.” Lance paused, waiting to see if Keith would interject and provide him _anything_ to work with. When he, predictably, proved disappointing, Lance finished his thought.

 

“Do you have any relatives who rowed?”

 

Keith was silent for so long that Lance worried he had tuned him out. This, unfortunately, was a very likely possibility. Lance rolled his eyes and was about to give up and drop back to run with Hunk or Rolo when Keith- blessedly- spoke up.

 

“I mean. Would you count- I guess Shiro,” Keith stumbled through the sentence. “He started a year before us;  since his family basically adopted me I ended up being dragged along to a bunch of regattas and it kind of stuck after that, I guess.”

 

Finally, some good fucking food.

 

“Does Shiro help you with rowing advice at home?”

 

Keith side-eyed him suspiciously. “Why do you care?”

 

Lance carefully wiped his expression of any frustration directed towards Keith- couldn’t he just accept that someone wanted to be his friend? Why did he have to be so difficult all the time?

 

“I’m curious, man. Just trying to get to know you,” Lance shrugged.

 

Slowly, Lance’s constant bombardment of polite questions got _boring._ He sighed internally; when were they going to get to the fun stuff- embarrassing middle school experiences, Lance’s deep-set suspicion that Keith had probably killed a man before, crushes- you know, things that all good friends share.

 

They jogged in silence for a while, and Lance entertained himself by watching a seal wind through the water to their right. The path they followed zig-zagged along the shore of the lake, providing them with a front-row view of the sunset and during unholy morning practices, the sunrise. Keith’s skin was golden and shining under the soft light and Lance noted how his cheeks puffed slightly as his breathing got labored. Shaking his head, Lance realized that the sparkle was a by-product of Keith’s copious sweating.

 

...Ew.

 

“Truth or truth?”

 

Startled, Keith almost tripped over his own feet when Lance suddenly broke the silence. Acting quickly, Lance held out a hand to steady him and Keith grabbed onto it before he could eat shit.

 

“Thanks.”

 

Lance nodded serenely.

 

He allowed Keith a moment to find his bearings as they continued on the run, then brought up the question again.

 

“You never picked one,” Lance fell silent for a moment to catch his breath. “Truth, or our other exciting option, truth?”

 

Keith looked at him strangely. “Am I...missing something here?”

 

“As you are hopefully aware, yes, it normally is truth or dare. Yet as we find ourselves in this current predicament,” Lance gestured to the rest of the team running behind them, “we can’t exactly get down and dirty with some juicy dares.”

 

Lance winked.

 

Keith squirmed.

 

Lance liked making him uncomfortable. It had a therapeutic effect on the soul.

 

“We _can_ , however, talk, which leaves us with my original question: truth or truth?”

 

“Difficult choice,” Keith answered. “I think I’ll go with truth.”

 

“Good man!” Lance exclaimed, rubbing his hands together mischievously. “Alright- fuck, marry, kill: Hulk, Captain America, Black Widow.”

 

Keith raised his eyebrows but didn’t further comment. “Easy. Fuck Captain America- super soldier stamina, you know? Marry Hulk, he’s got some rough moments but overall a good guy, kill Black Widow. Too sneaky to hang around with long.”

 

Lance let out a surprised laugh. “Hey hey hey-” he elbowed Keith lightly in the side. “Looks like you’ve thought about this before.”

 

Keith looked him dead in the eye, “Only a fool hasn’t.”

From that day forward, talking with Keith became decidedly easier and much less like pulling teeth. Maybe like pulling hair. Lance was sexy like that.

 

Yet Lance wouldn’t attribute the true start of their friendship to that fateful run- oh no. It began three days later at 5:53 pm, almost two hours into practice and about an hour past each of their breaking points.

 

In other words, they were fucking tired.

 

Pidge’s voice projected through the speakers in the boat grated relentlessly on Lance’s nerves.

 

“She has the nerve,” Lance whispered to himself, “to tell us we need to go faster when she’s just _sitting_ there?”

 

While the boat was stopped, Pidge regularly called out for Keith to take a stroke in bow seat to adjust their positioning. As the rower closest to the end of the boat (and, consequently, the rower who could turn the boat the easiest), he often got stuck with helping Pidge steer.

 

During this rest time between pieces, the boys’ heavy breathing filled the silence while they each individually pitied themselves. Even if Lance wanted to say something to boost the boat morale, he doubted that anyone could hear him. He and Keith were secluded in bow- too far away to talk to anyone else, so their only options were each other.

 

Suddenly, Lance noticed Keith muttering something quietly to him.

 

“I would rather hike up the frozen solid Andes wearing nothing but a sombrero and a toe ring than take one more stroke for Pidge today.”

 

Lance froze. Delicately, noiselessly, and _slow, slow, slow,_ he turned to face Keith with a wide eyed grin on his face. Keith was examining the blisters on his hands, then looked up. Their eyes met, and Keith raised a single finger to his mouth in a “ssh” motion.

 

“No one will ever believe you.”

 

Lance thought that was okay with him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ADAM

_ Water resistant,  _ Lance thought mockingly. ‘Water resistant’ is  _ bullshit.  _ It’s the lukewarm coffee of clothing designations. Just mediocre enough that it's deeply unsatisfying regardless of if you want the drink hot or cold, and there’s nothing you can do about it. 

 

Lance’s ‘ _ water resistant’  _ jacket clung to his skin heavily, making the rest of his clothing feel sloppy and cumbersome. Despite the label, water seeped through the fabric and into his bones, chilling him from the inside-out. His seat squelched unpleasantly as he shifted his positioning, which made rowing...noisy. 

 

Examining the sky and the rain that poured down in heavy torrents, Lance imagined that someone High Up had to be pretty furious. The rain whipped through the boat, filling the  _ Altea _ ’s hull with a small and icy ocean. Pidge’s voice crackled through the speakers and Lance had to strain to make out what she was saying above the tempest. 

 

It was always a peculiar feeling, Lance thought, to row in the rain. His extremities felt frozen solid, yet in his belly (and legs. Ouch.) burned a scorching heat that fought to combat the weather. These opposing extremes reminded him of feverish nights- half of him needing to hurl off all his blankets, while the other half demanded he pile on even more. Choppy water swirled around the boat, tipping it precariously to starboard, then to port, then even more violently back to starboard. 

 

Now, Lance was normally a very technically strong rower, if you’d ask him. Which people didn’t tend to do per se, but that was unimportant. The point was, the horribly unbalanced boat made it impossible for Lance to take a solid stroke; in other words, a lot of the water that should have been pushed by his blade instead ended up going backwards and straight towards Keith. 

 

After a 12 minute piece, during which Lance was certain he soaked Keith on exactly nine strokes, Keith finally snapped. 

 

“Lance.”

 

“Hmm?” Lance responded, turning around to stare at him. 

 

“I. Am fucking. Freezing,” Keith ground out, “and would  _ really appreciate it  _ if you could tone down the backsplash,” he finished, gripping his oar tightly and gritting his teeth. 

 

Absentmindedly, Lance cataloged how nice Keith’s hair looked while wet. He had a few strands stuck to his flushed cheeks, and the locks that fell in his eyes managed to soften his murderous expression somewhat. Go figure.

 

A quick scan down his face showed how Keith’s lips were deep red from the cold. They parted in exertion, quick breaths escaping in frosty clouds. Lance found himself transfixed for a moment too long, and inhaled sharply. 

 

With a mental clearing-the-cobwebs, Lance refocused on the present. Keith looked at him with a peeved and expectant expression. 

 

“Sorry- repeat what you just said?”

 

Keith groaned. “Stop backsplashing me- we’re wet enough already from the rain. It’s not like we need any more.”

 

Lance shrugged. “You said it yourself- we’re already soaked, what difference does a little backsplash make?” Lance countered. “Besides,” he paused and smiled cheekily at him, “most people are happy when they get wet spending time behind me.” 

 

Keith’s eyes widened almost comically when Lance’s implication dawned on him, but before he could get a word out, Pidge interrupted him. 

 

“All eight sit ready-” Keith glared at Lance and menacingly mouthed ‘ _ Later _ ’. 

 

“Ready, row!” 

 

From that day forward, it became Lance’s personal mission to make Keith squirm with as many unfortunate rowing innuendos as possible. 

 

On Saturday, Lance and Keith slumped down the docks in the early morning side by side. They each held two oars, and were about to place them on the ground before Lance tugged at Keith’s sweatshirt to make him pause briefly. Curiously, Keith made a questioning noise in the back of his throat. Lance raised an eyebrow, placed a single hand on Keith’s oar, and whispered, “Keith, your shaft feels so hard right now.” 

 

It was even worth the sharp punch in the stomach when he saw Keith sputter and stalk away. 

 

Monday left them with a lackluster piece on the water. Under the guise of giving a pep talk, Lance energetically patted Keith's shoulder. “Sometimes all that’s missing is just a little thrust,” Lance dropped his voice low on that one, just for good measure, “to get everyone excited again.” 

 

Keith scoffed, but didn’t move Lance’s hand from where it lay on his arm. 

 

On Tuesday, while strapping his feet into the footboards on the erg, Lance leaned over to Keith who had sat to his right. “I just love being tied down like this, you know?” 

 

“You’re so impossible!” Keith whispered aggressively, his eyes flicking around the room and gauging who could be paying them attention.  _ Finally, a reaction. _ Lance hummed contentedly and finished warming up, feeling smug. 

 

Friday found them in the weights room. Lance was spotting Keith on the squats rack in relative silence while they both focused on the task at hand. Though he wouldn’t admit it unless outright questioned, their newfound friendship was really convenient from a logistical standpoint. Due to their similar body types, Keith and Lance naturally found the most direct competition in each other. As they possessed the same physical advantages and disadvantages, any loss or win between them was purely a result of superior mental strength. Keith, frustratingly, never gave in and always strove for  _ one notch higher.  _ Countering him, Lance’s pure fire and desire to prove himself fueled his workouts.  

 

When putting their heads down and biting the bullet, Keith and Lance thrived. 

 

“Ready for five pounds more?” Lance leered. “I bet I could even-”

 

“Born ready,” Keith interrupted, his voice strained as he forced out the words with the weights still on his back. Streaks of sweat dripped down his forehead and his jaw tightened. When he finally finished the reps and placed the squat bar back on the rack, Keith let out a quiet sigh of relief.

 

“Normally I save moans like that for the bedroom, but nothing like a little exhibitionism to shake things up, huh Keith?” Lance prodded. Predictably, Keith rolled his eyes. A bit less expected, however, were the sudden guffaws that burst out of Keith’s chest. He squeezed his eyes shut and soon had to place a hand over his stomach to steady himself. Gradually, Keith calmed down but looked at Lance with humor still in his eyes, shining brilliantly. 

 

Lance felt. Different, after that. 

 

That night, after practice concluded, Keith and Lance walked back to the parking lot together. Gravel crunched under their feet and their own raucous conversation filled the emptiness. 

 

“Dude,” Lance commented with a sharp smile, “your hands are so jacked up.”

 

“I know! God-” Keith agreed vehemently, looking down at his palms. They were littered with blisters and many of his fingers had been rubbed raw. “It feels like someone took a cheese grater to them.”

 

Forcefully, as if to prove his point, Keith shoved his hands in Lance’s face and rubbed them down his cheeks. Keith let the entire weight of his body lean on Lance in a joking attempt to smother him. 

 

“Feel my pain, Lance. Feel it. Smell it,” Keith taunted in a loud and drawn-out whisper, now wrapping his arms over Lance’s shoulders to get him in a headlock. 

 

“Get your grimy hands off of me, filthy ass, shit-” Lance laughed and feebly tried to slap Keith away. Lance soon became aware of how his heartbeat thudded heavily in his chest, demanding attention. Their proximity allowed Keith’s breathless laughter to drift pleasantly past his ear, and Lance suddenly felt very comfortable. Their playful wrestling gradually subsided as both boys calmed; they were left with Keith’s arm loosely looped around Lance, who kept a hand secured on Keith’s forearm. They continued like this the rest of the way to the parking lot, where Lance disentangled himself. 

 

“Give me your hand,” Lance demanded. Keith obliged with a quizzical look. Comprehension dawned on his face upon seeing what Lance had been rifling around in his bag for. 

 

“Aha!” Lance exclaimed victoriously and held out a thin roll of boxer’s tape. Several of his own fingers were protected with the stuff, clearly placed strategically over his blisters to make rowing with them more bearable. 

 

“You’re a god,” Keith exhaled gratefully. “Mine ran out last week and I haven’t really gotten around to stealing a new roll from Shiro.”

 

“Tsk, tsk,” Lance shook his head disapprovingly. “Driving home with skinned hands is a bitch. Just- just let me…” Lance trailed off as he focused intently on wrapping Keith’s palms. His fingertips were light over Keith’s own, and the dark had forced Lance closer so he could see properly. The other rowers filtering into the parking lot didn’t pay them any mind, and their chatter faded into the background as Lance and Keith stood enveloped in each other. 

 

Lance, selfishly, took advantage of the moment to study Keith’s hands. They were callused, knobby, freckled, oddly tanned from the fingerless gloves he wore outside of practice, and absolute  _ works of art.  _ They were personal testaments to hard work- gold medals that boasted of countless morning practices finished, dreadful ergs overcome, and personal records broken. 

 

Eventually, Lance forced his gaze up to meet Keith’s own. For one of the first times since meeting him, Keith looked...open. The moonlight reflected brilliantly in his eyes, causing them to pierce through the darkness which so cruelly shadowed his other features. He smiled faintly with upturned eyebrows, making Lance feel like he was in freefall. Unknowingly, Lance had shifted himself even closer towards Keith who now stood backed up against his car door. Their hands were still touching, yet the previous task lay all but forgotten by both. A time passed in which they simply looked at each other, until Lance abruptly coughed and took a purposeful step back. 

 

“I’m- I’m still taller than you,” he said and averted his eyes. Keith’s expression immediately shut down into one of careful apathy, and the moment was over. 

 

“I guess so.” Keith pushed off the car and turned away from Lance to open it. His back still facing Lance, he murmured a final “see you tomorrow,” and shut the door behind him. Lance stood alone with his arms hanging straight at his sides, staring at Keith’s car speed away. 

 

Hunk meandered out of the boathouse and upon seeing Lance, gave a quick wave and jogged over. “You good, Lance? You look kinda- lost, I don’t know.” 

 

“Yeah, Hunk. Thanks Big Guy- I’m fine.” 

 

Cheered by Lance’s positive response, Hunk smiled and gave him a final pat on the shoulder before going home. Lance didn’t know how long he sat in the parking lot thinking about what had just transpired, but it was late enough that he had to be kicked out by a park ranger closing the lot. Playing the whole night on a loop in his head, Lance was left with only one recurring thought. 

 

“Fuck.” 


End file.
